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When I was eight years old, my brother, Bernard, was 13. We lived in an apartment complex in Flatbush, and slept in the same room; a bed on either side of the south facing window, with a small table in between.

On top of the table there was a lamp with a thin, black, cylindrical metal shade, approximately 16 inches in diameter. A rim extended down four inches.

That shade would get very hot, which was why we rarely used the lamp.

Not to light the room, anyway.

Because I was younger (still am), I would be sent to bed by our Mother earlier than my brother. 9pm. I would usually fall asleep with my transistor radio under my pillow, listening to all the big hits playing on WMCA. The Beatles. Or The Animals. Donovan. The Dave Clark Five. Sometimes, Petula Clark.

This one particular evening, after turning the radio off and falling asleep, Bernard woke me up.

“Wanna play a game?” he asked.

I jumped; the room was pitch black; I had no idea what time it was. I didn’t even know he had gone to bed.

“What?” I replied.

“A game. Do you wanna play,” he repeated.

A game? I thought. Games could be fun…we used to play lots of cool games: Risk, Parcheesi, Chutes and Ladders, Twister…

But I had the feeling this would be more like the game he taught me in the building’s laundry room a few weeks prior. When he poured an entire box of laundry detergent powder into a lady’s washing machine, after she had stepped away.

“Sure,” I answered, still a bit groggy. “What do I have to do?”

It was the type of game that starts off slow, then increases the tension with each passing minute.

Bernard explained he would go first; he would lightly tap the side of the aforementioned metal lamp shade with his fingernail.

“Ting,” Then it was my turn; I had to tap it louder. Which would result in a “Tong.” And on it would go.

The player whose lamp shade tap resulted in our Mom storming in to beat us, loses, he explained.

“You’re crazy. I don’t want to play,” I said.

“What are you, chicken?” he asked.

Crap. Now I had to play. What would I do if I was branded a coward?

And so we began. Each tap, 30 seconds apart, getting increasingly loud.

For my eleventh turn I used my knuckles. It sounded like cymbals crashing.

“I don’t know what’s going on in there, but if you both know what’s good for you, you’ll stop it right now,” my Mother yelled from the living room.

Ha. Bernard’s turn. Game over!

His tap, 60 seconds later (I know, he stretched the 30 second rule. But it was his game…), sounded like a gunshot.

“If you make me get up and come in there GOD HELP YOU! Now GO TO SLEEP!” my Mom thundered.

Crap. I couldn’t believe it.

My turn.

Those that live to run away, live to fight another day. “I’m afraid! I’m not playing anymore,” I whispered.

“You have to,” Bernard said. “You’re not allowed to quit.”

Hmmm. Couldn’t argue with that logic.

At that point it was akin to playing Russian Roulette. After five successful turns.

I hit that shade so hard, it was as if a bomb had dropped.

“GODDAMNIT!!!” my Mom bellowed. “NOW you’re gonna get it!”

Within five seconds our bedroom door flew open and my Mom came crashing in, breathing fire.

Because Bernard was older, he held certain advantages. He got to stay up later. He got a full glass of soda with dinner, to my half glass.

But he also got to have the initial beating.

Having no time to waste, I quickly erected my ‘Mommy Shelter’ while Bernard got smacked around.

It was well thought out months before, by both of us. I wrapped my blanket around me like a cocoon, tucking it underneath me on all sides. All that was visible was my head, which I quickly retracted into my shelter, as if I was a turtle.

I then collapsed my body into a fetal position, and inched as far down the bed as possible, then kept my knees and elbows pointed up.

I noticed a pause in Bernard’s whooping; my turn.

My Mom, who had to be tiring by then, turned towards my bed. I was counting on her being winded from the initial beating, plus the fact that her eyes had probably not fully adjusted to the dark.

She began her assault with lethal left/right combinations to where she assumed my upper body would be located. But because I had moved down the bed, she slapped nothing but my helpless pillow.

So she adjusted her blows to where she assumed my mid-section would be, where her palms struck my hard skull. Not too pleasant for me, but less pleasant for her. As she continued to move down the bed, she struck nothing but elbows and knees.

She finally gave up, and exited as quickly as she had appeared, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind her. I imagine she collapsed on the couch. It was probably 11::30. Time for Johnny Carson.

I exited my shelter, exuberant, sweaty and breathing hard. Victorious!

Bernard did not make a sound. I assumed he was either asleep, or rendered unconscious.

After ten minutes or so I relaxed, and was about to fall asleep myself when my brother sat up and asked, “rematch?”